


Wrecked

by 2x2verse (agent_florida)



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Asexual Character, Dom/sub, F/M, Masturbation, Mentor/Sidekick, Oral Sex, Power Play, Size Kink, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_florida/pseuds/2x2verse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aradia knows carapaces are asexual. Droog knows Aradia's craving him. There has to be a way to compromise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrecked

You’re inordinately fond of her.

At first Aradia was your stabdaughter, the two of you still strangers and coming to blows more often than not. Then she was your protégé, picking up all of your skills one by one. That, you suppose, was when the pride started to manifest, because as she became better at what she did—what you did—you saw more of yourself in her. A little narcissism is good for the soul.

And never let it be said that she hasn’t taught you anything in return. Aradia knows more about the occult than anyone else you’ve ever met, and her uncanny connection to the dead serves you quite well. From her own amateur spelunking, she knows how to pick out—and pick apart—traps lurking around every corner, and time and time again she’s pointed out the benefits of, not just speed, but flexibility as well.

There are still things the two of you are learning. How to live as a family, for one. How to live with a different species entirely, for another. But there’s even smaller things than that. There’s the way she’s learned to make your Earl Grey the way you like it. Sometimes, you send in her dry cleaning for her. When you come home at night, before the two of you go your separate ways, you’ll often spend a good deal of time meticulously cleaning your sharps, each of you caressing the metal like you might a lover.

At first Aradia was your stabdaughter, but now? It’s something more.

She’s started to play your saxophone. At first, you used to chastise her, tell her not to fray the reed when you’d just put it down, but she just looked at you and told you that she likes it when it tastes like you. You’ve started to brush her hair at night, sitting on the edge of your bed and running a comb through her thick, dark hair as she sits between your knees and hunches over her tarot spread. In a strange way, you’ve begun to speak one another’s language, and it’s arousing things inside you that you didn’t think you could know.

You’re inordinately fond of her, and why shouldn’t you be? She’s yours, in a way that goes beyond devotion and past possession into identification. There’s an intimate thrill in watching her pick up your mannerisms, something akin to a spike of desire when she looks at you with that determination in her eyes. And while she seems to feel it, too, you’re not sure what to do with what’s happening.

Carapaces, you’ve explained to her time and time again, are a strange breed. You still bear the barcode on your wrist that came from the cloning process; excepting the Queen, no carapace reproduces sexually any longer. Your instinctual drive is not towards fornication but instead self-preservation. You can still remember the look of alarm on Aradia’s face when she first saw you disrobed—you hadn’t realized that other societies might view nudity as anything other than functional, let alone sexual. While reproduction might be bred out of your species, the physicality remains unchanged, and so you have been left with an appendage that’s nothing short of useless.

Ever since that day, though, Aradia’s acted differently around you. You understand why, but at first, you were content to let her process the incident on her own time and terms. Lately, however, she’s seemed distracted. Every night, now, the Hierophant shows up in her spread—the card she associates with you. While you brush her hair, she rests her head on the inside of your knee; at one point, you felt the ghost of the press of her lips against your carapace shell, leaving a rust veneer behind on the surface as well as a good deal of confusion.

You wait, and you wait. You can be patient, but you find yourself twitching, in a constant state of anticipation that Aradia will act on those obvious urges. You’ve never considered how you would react, until tonight. Tonight, when she’s garbed herself in lingerie the color of her blood before she does her spread. Tonight, when her lips are glossy like she’s a vampire just fed. Tonight, when her pupils are blown in the dark of the room. Tonight, when her perfectly-brushed and glossy curls smell of grave dust. She walks out of her closet and stops in front of you, not kneeling down but instead looming over you as best she can. “Droog.”

“Sir,” you correct her.

Aradia closes her eyes. Her throat works in a swallow. Even though she has to tilt her chin down in order to look into your eyes, you see her look further down, almost in deference. “Sir,” she says, and you can see the tremor traveling along her skin. “I—I’ve been wondering about—I wondered if I could—“

“Use your words, girl.”

That quiets her stammering. She swallows again, opens her eyes. “Please,” and the word has the weight of a prayer. She has your attention. “Sir, I know about our differences. How carapaces don’t feel the things I’m feeling for you. But please…” Her voice cracks. She wets her lips with the point of her tongue. “I know you’re fond of me, or you would have given up on me a long time ago. I want to show you how much I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

“And how do you propose to do that?”

“I know it won’t do the same for you as it will for me,” she blurts out, almost interrupting you. “But I have to—I need to.”

“Use your words,” you repeat.

“Please, sir…” Those words sound so good out of her mouth. “Fuck me.”

Although that had to be the logical conclusion of her statements, it still takes you by surprise. “What brought this on?”

“Sir,” and even though Aradia drops her gaze demurely to the carpet there’s the twitch of a smirk at the corner of her mouth, “I’ve seen you naked. I know your body by sight now, and there’s—a hunger, a curiosity—I want—need to know it by touch.”

“Megido.” Her eyes flick up to yours. “This is about my cock.”

Even though you say it straightforwardly, she can hear the savagery under your tone. She knows she has to speak. “Please, I need it, I can’t stop thinking about it, I’m distracted and I can’t focus and I need to know what it feels like, how it can—you have to understand, sir, I never knew one could be of those proportions, I can’t let that go to waste, I need—“

“Stop.” She ceases immediately. You’ve taught her well. “You may.”

Something like a moan comes from her. “Thank you, sir.”

“I wasn’t finished,” you cut across her, and she silences herself for you. “Bring my Djarums from the living room, as well as the newspaper they’re resting on. When you return, you will do as I say or this privilege will be taken from you. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.” Aradia leaves on silent feet—more skills she’s learned from you—which gives you a moment to collect yourself. The closest you come to disrobing is loosening your tie. As with all things, she will have to put in a good deal of effort in order to please you. Strangely, as much as you have no sexual urges, the thought of using the power of your voice to undo her is utterly appealing. She takes direction well, she’s aesthetically pleasing, and she’s eager to please and greedy for attention.

When she returns, she presents the items to you wordlessly, her head bowed. “Good,” you tell her, taking them from her hands; your fingers brush, and you can feel the electricity under her skin. She waits as you light a cigarette, as you lean back on the bed with your back against the headboard. Her eyes rake your form, and you can feel from her gaze the ardency of her primal urges. “Strip.”

“But I—“

“Do as you’re told.” The ‘or-what’ at the end of that sentence is the threat of taking this away from her, not giving her what she craves and leaving her with a tension winding ever tighter until she snaps.

With a slight pout, Aradia reaches around to undo the clasp of her brassiere; the scrap of lace falls to the floor as she hooks her thumbs in the sides of her bikini and pulls down. She steps forward, nude but not bare—some sort of dignity clings to her spine and forces her into the perfect posture you’ve taught her. There’s no attempt to shield herself from her view, no tries at an ineffectual fig leaf, and you can see the expanse of her grey skin laid out before you.

“Come here.” She comes to the foot of the bed, but no closer. “On the bed.” She seems to understand that she only has the permissions you’ve granted her, that you’re to be the narrator of this experience and she’s here only at your whim. For fear of disappointing you, she curls near the foot of the bed, nowhere near touching you. You light a cigarette, drag, draw, exhale, and she never takes her eyes from yours. “I will give you permission to remove my clothing, with one caveat.”

“Yes, sir?” She’s already breathless, her eyes glowing.

“You will care for them as I do. Take them, fold them, leave them on the armchair, and so help me, if I find a single wrinkle, I will show you how well I can use your whips.” Throughout, you have never once raised your voice.

“Yes, sir.” Her hands tremble—she doesn’t seem to know where to start—before she reaches for the loop of your tie to pull herself to you. A soft sound escapes her when she crushes her body to yours, and she leaves little butterfly-touches of lip prints on the shell of your neck as she draws off the silk noose. She folds it in her hands before moving on to worship every button of your shirt, leaving her lipstick on your shell as more and more of it is revealed. Her utter devotion pleases you.

Aradia runs her hands over all of your shell, sweeping her palms down your arms before she deftly undoes your cufflinks to finish removing your shirt. Such a good girl—she holds them out to you in the palm of her hand once she draws away, wordlessly asking where you want them. “Nightstand,” you tell her, and she obeys. When she bends to set them down, she presents her posterior to you, and the place between her legs, looking like nothing less than a pornographic centerfold.

She leaves the bed, folds your clothes, comes back to work on your trousers. You’re tempted to tell her to leave the belt on the bed—you’re unsure what you would do with it, but it would be nice to keep it as a threat—but she curls it in on itself and leaves it on the nightstand, too. Deft fingers undo the catch of your trousers, bring them down from your hips over your thighs and eventually off, and though her hands linger around the split of your legs you can tell she’s trying to hold back until you’ve explicitly allowed her access. She leaves and folds these, too, and you can tell your training has worn off on her, what with how fastidiously she treats your things.

Once again, Aradia hesitates before she crawls onto the mattress—waiting for directions. Good. You will train her eventually. “Between my legs.” She crawls there, looking up at you almost catlike, afraid to smile. “Give me your hands.” After a moment of hesitation, she sits back on her ankles and threads her fingers with your waiting digits; you take her palms and plant them on the mattress on either side of your waist, forcing her to bend over. Her face is practically at your groin now. “Higher,” is your last indicator on her posture, and she arches her back even more profoundly so she can get her rear higher in the air. The rusting in her cheeks means she’s being humiliated by this. Good. “Arouse me.”

Bless her, she looks so confused. She makes a move to take back one of her hands, but you close your fingers in a cuff around her wrist. And yet she still needs to look up to you for some sort of approval, mouth hanging open. Her pretty pink tongue is nearly lolling out of its own accord; you pinch it between your thumb and forefinger and draw her mouth down.

Of course you’re not aroused yet, so you can somewhat understand her confusion. Under normal circumstances, your genitalia merely acts as the plating for the space between your legs, the seam between organ and body almost indistinguishable. But as she starts to use her tongue to slick you with her spittle, she starts to realize what’s happening, sighing as she starts to see what she remembers. With every eager lap at your plating, the flesh beneath the shell swells that little bit more until you start to stand erect.

She doesn’t stop there, though. The point of her tongue worms its way into every crevice between your plating, only getting you more aroused. Because of the sensitive nature of the general area and the need for flexibility, your plating overlaps every half-inch or so, meaning that when the organ beneath swells, there is a ridge of carapace shell for every inch or so of your length. And Aradia worships it. She sucks kisses into the sides of your shaft, nuzzling her face against it even, but she can’t stop there. “Suck,” you tell her. Your tone remains unchanged: dead and demanding.

It’s almost as if she was waiting for those words. Her mouth sinks over the tip of your shaft, and you can feel the satisfied moan as it ripples out of her throat and through you. Her wide eyes look up at you as she hollows her cheeks and suctions with her mouth, and a low growl starts somewhere in your chest as you hold back from bucking up. Not to get more sensation—a desire to exercise your dominance by pushing into her throat. You want to take everything she’s offering. But if you did that now, you’re reasonably certain you would cause permanent damage. Not all bodies are as resilient as yours.

You settle for running your fingers through her hair. It’s always fascinated you. You have none yourself, and so it only made sense for you to touch hers as every opportunity—hence the nightly ritual. Now, it’s merely your fingers instead of a comb, but her dark strands slip-slide through your grasp with a silky fluidity. With one hand, you gather her hair at the base of her neck; with the other, you grasp at one of her horns. The noise she makes, the way she lets her mouth go slack to give voice to her moan, leaves it unmistakable—she loves it, loves the feel of you controlling the movements of her head by the things that differentiate her species from yours.

“Harder,” you insist, and Aradia adds as much pressure as she can from the inside of her mouth. It’s not the speed you’re inquisitive about so much as testing her devotion, how much difficulty she’s willing to endure in order to claim her reward. She makes a soft sound at every pulse you can see of your shaft in her mouth, and you find yourself wishing for the enhanced sensitivity most species have in their genitalia if only so you can feel exactly what it is she’s trying to do to you. As it is, it feels more like she’s sucking on your finger, and you can only truly feel it when she goes above and beyond. Resiliency has its drawbacks.

Eventually, though, she starts to breathe too hard through her nose, and the pursed ring of her lips starts to get sloppy. “Stop,” you tell her, letting go of her head, and she draws off immediately; a string of spittle still connects her lips to your plating. You stub your cigarette out in the ashtray on the nightstand and light another; when you look down to her again, she’s still eyeing your cock reverently. “Well?” you ask her. The implication is ‘what are you waiting for?’

She understands what you meant. You take in a drag of your Djarum while she moves up your body, gripping the headboard on either side of your shoulders with white knuckles as her thighs come up to frame your hips. The folds between her legs are slick with desire, and when she ruts them up against your shaft she makes a wondrous sound around biting her lips, her eyes involuntarily closing. Eventually, when she can’t seem to stand it, she holds herself up and braces herself for penetration, hovering over the tip of your shaft and slowly sinking down.

You’re interested to see how this turns out. You watch her intensely, thoroughly enjoying your cigarette as she tries to take you in. As you thought might happen, her body gives up on her when only two of your ridges have disappeared into her; she makes a frustrated noise, but nothing else happens. She’s already spread so wide with your girth, and there’s so much more of your length to take. “I can’t,” she says softly, and you can hear the cringe in her tone.

“Off,” you tell her, waving your hand in a shooing motion. Aradia winces when she pulls off, letting out a huff of relief once the stress to her system is gone, but her posture is defeated. “What did you do wrong?” She doesn’t answer you. You’re tempted to slap her around a little, but she seems to understand that what she did was unacceptable, and there’s no need for corporal punishment when you’ve already touched her mind so profoundly. “Answer my question.”

“I don’t know.”

“Sir.”

“I don’t know, sir,” Aradia says, her voice shaking.

“Look at me.” You want her to be able to take in the utterly blank expression of your face. You refuse to gratify her with even disdain—she does not get to read you now, when she’s made such a grave error. “Arouse yourself.”

A horrified flush spreads across her face, dusting even her shoulders and the tips of her ears with rust-red. “What?”

You refuse to repeat yourself. “Did I stutter?” You ash your cigarette.

“No, sir.”

Still, she’s reluctant to start, it seems, without explicit instructions from you as to how to go about doing that. “Back where you were.” She assumes the position so gracefully; it’s almost as if she were made to do this for you. One of her hands you keep next to your waist, but the other you allow to go free. “Finger yourself—and suck.”

Aradia sets to with an unprecedented enthusiasm. With her free hand, she reaches behind herself, and you can feel every huff of her breath in the sensitive gaps between your plating. Her movements are even sloppier this time, her mouth loose around your shaft as she sighs and gasps at the way she manipulates her own body. She sinks down a little too far on you, perhaps pushes too far too fast with herself, and she whimpers, the sound utterly appealing to you. She’s already beginning to fall apart.

Eventually, she takes her mouth away from the tip of your shaft, instead pressing sloppy open-mouthed kisses to the base and laving you with spittle as she uses her hands on herself. “Please, I need,” she pants, “I want, please…”

You stub out your cigarette, light a third. “Show me you’re ready.”

While you start your cigarette, Aradia moves up your body again, repositioning herself, except instead of sinking down onto you immediately she plants a hand behind herself so she’s leaning back. This way, you can see her hand between her legs, three fingers in her slit coated with translucent red, and every movement of her hand draws out a wet-sticky sound. “Please let me.”

“Sir,” you correct her. She’ll learn eventually. “Spread yourself.”

You can almost see the gears working in her head as she tries to figure out how to position herself and hold herself open for your inspection at the same time. Eventually, she kneels over your thighs, using both hands to hold her folds apart and show you how ready she is. “Please, sir.”

You’ll be the judge of that. Without warning, you use three fingers to penetrate her. She squeals, clamping down against the intrusion, but she takes them easily enough, her slit drooling onto your hand as you crook your fingers forward and draw her back into position over the tip of your shaft. “Now you may begin,” you tell her, withdrawing your fingers only to wipe them off on her skin. You refuse to deliberately make your sheets so filthy.

This time, it goes a little easier. Aradia sinks down, slowly but surely, a satisfied noise welling up as she takes more and more of your shaft. It’s not effortless, though, and you can tell there’s still some residual pain for her from the way her eyebrows crease. Overall, though, she’s panting and trembling and still trying to seat herself with her hips nestled against yours.

Her face is fascinating to watch as she does this. One moment she’ll be biting her lip, the next her eyes will be fluttering shut and she’ll be almost smiling as her mouth lolls open with her panting. A few strands of her dark hair are streaking across her forehead, stuck there with sex-sweat. The noises she makes are also intriguing to you. While you’re sure there’s still a large amount of discomfort for her, the sounds she makes are all of pleasure, some of frustration that she can’t go as fast as she wants. Her thighs around your hips tremble with the effort of balancing sinking down with taking you slowly; her fingers clench hard around the headboard, her grip ever-tighter as she takes more and more of you.

Once she sinks down all the way, she chokes out a sigh—of relief or of frustration? She must still be feeling some discomfort, but overall, her expression is one of bliss. “How does it feel?”

“Good,” she moans. “Fantastic.”

“No,” you tell her. You ash your cigarette carelessly over her skin; she trembles when the hot residue sears her. “How does it feel?” The point is to make her vocalize the sensations.

“I can feel everything,” Aradia tells you, her voice full of wonder. “Every single ridge—I’m so full. Like you’re in my throat.” She breathes, quick and frantic, and tries to put her thoughts together. “Like you’re splitting me in half.”

“I imagine that will only get more intense when you start to move,” you mention lightly.

A desperate sound starts deep in her chest. “I can’t, I’m still trying to—“

You bring up your hand to circle your fingers around the base of her throat. You can’t actually choke her like this, break her larynx under your grip while you crush the breath out of her, but it feels close enough, with your fingertips on her pulse. “Move.”

To your surprise, she does the opposite. The pressure around your shaft intensifies to a level you thought impossible, Aradia letting out a little sob-laugh as sensation ripples through her body and constricts you within her. “Fuck,” she whispers while it washes over her.

You give her only a few seconds to compose herself before you deliberately shift beneath her, so she can feel you moving inside her. You stub out this cigarette, light a fourth, and then return your attention to her once you stop teasing her with your movements. “Move,” you order her again.

“Oh.” Aradia grips the headboard harder, raises herself up on you using her arms, and you can see that she’s painted your shaft with a delicate rust veneer. When she sinks down again, an elongated vowel sound comes out of her throat. “Ooh…”

She’s still going far too slowly. You want to see her fall apart, and she’s being far too cautious right now. “Faster,” you hiss, blowing smoke in her face.

A helpless moan comes from her throat, and you savor it like you savor this cigarette. Her movements speed up, a little, then a little more, and though she still moves shallowly on you, she’s still hastening as much as she can. “Oh, fuck,” comes out of her mouth, then “fuck!” again as she gets used to how it feels to ride you.

She works up to rocking herself on you, not so much changing depth as pressure, but this isn’t what you wanted from her. “Harder,” you tell her.

“I can’t,” she wails. “Sir” gets tacked on as an afterthought.

“You can. You will. You must.”

This is the point at which she really begins to sob. While you can acknowledge that she is more than likely experiencing some pain, you know that the tears aren’t from discomfort. No, this comes from the sheer expanse of the physical sensations racking her form. She is wrecking herself on you, and it gives you an obscene amount of delight to watch her fall apart on your shaft like this. She works up to riding you with vigorous glee, slamming herself down over and over and over, a little choked moan rising from her throat every time. Every so often, she stops to grind into your pelvis, searching for sensation for her slit in the hollow left behind when your shaft is like this.

For you, though, it’s a pleasure to watch her body work, and you chain-smoke your way through this, thoroughly enjoying the pure hedonism of these acts. Each breath makes her shoulders rise and fall, her small breasts heaving with each pant and each bounce, and you could swear that you can see her stomach swell just the slightest bit once she fully seats herself on you. Her dark hair falls in a cascade behind her back, but it’s beginning to stick to her now as she works herself up. When she looks at you, her pupils are lust-blown and her eyes half-shut, but more often than not, she has to close her eyes in order to keep all the sensations straight. Her mouth hangs open as she pants, and every so often she wets her lips with the point of her tongue, emphasizing their rust-red color. A sheen of perspiration clings to her skin from the effort of keeping it all together, but she can’t, and that’s the best part of this for you—that she’s losing control.

Several times, Aradia has to stop because she clenches too insistently around you. It takes you a few moments to realize that she’s orgasming when that happens, but as you’ve kept track, this is the eighth time it’s happened so far. And yet she continues to slam herself down and bring herself back off, riding you as hard as she can—is this not enough for her? Or does she feel like she has to get everything out of the way now, that this will never happen again? “What are you waiting for?” you ask her.

“You, sir,” she barely has the energy to pant out, going as fast as she can.

Ah—she’s been holding off so that you might orgasm as well. “Don’t.” It’s the most eloquent way you can find in this moment to tell her not to wait for an impossibility to your physiology.

That one word seems to let loose everything Aradia was holding back. She draws herself on and off of you with reckless abandon, practically screaming every time she hits a certain angle, and yet she’s still not satisfied. But then she lets out a hellish shriek, holding you inside while she drenches you with her natural lubrication, torrents gushing out of her while she moves in ripples around you. Tears squeeze out of her eyes—a final climax that leaves her shivering with intensity and trembling too hard to pull off of you. “Droog,” she croons as she throws her head back, a shy, blissful smile blooming on her face.

This one you can feel better than the others. She constricts you insistently, impossibly tight and hot and wet, and it seeps into the spaces between your plating to show you what it might be like for another species with a less weaponized body. The sensation is still deadened, but if every orgasm you wrench from her can manipulate your body like this, you’re sure you could learn to interpret it as sexual. For now, it’s enough for you to watch her try to regain her composure, a small amount of spittle dribbling from the corner of her mouth as she pants and tries to collect herself.

Even though the sensation has mostly subsided, Aradia still holds you inside herself. “Off,” you tell her. From the trembling in her arms and legs, she has to be exhausted, and yet you’re not about to help her through this. This is exactly what she asked for, and it’s no fault of yours that she has no plans for what happens afterwards. As she rises, she cries out just a little as each of your ridges leaves her, stressing her body with the flare of it before she gets some relief and then another comes to take its place. She’s made you absolutely filthy, and the insides of her thighs are painted rust-red—blood? Or genetic fluid? Does it matter?

Once you fall out of her, you can already feel yourself flagging. This will be hell to clean if your anatomy traps her fluids under your plating—you might even have to take one of those abhorrent showers instead of cleansing yourself with oil as per your usual habits. “Clean up your mess,” you order her.

Of course, she interprets this in the best way possible. She uses her mouth once again to suck up the rust veneer left on your plating, throat working in a swallow as she takes all of her own fluids back. Using her mouth means keeping you erect for long enough that she can run her tongue over every inch of stained shell, eating her own release and degrading herself even further for you.

Though you could let her keep going, you’re as cleansed as you’ll ever be from a tongue bath. “Stop.” She doesn’t want to, and for a moment, you swear she won’t listen, but she holds herself back from mouthing at you, nearly shaking with the effort it takes to restrain herself. “Good,” you tell her, and she seems to sigh in relief, losing an invisible tension in her shoulders. “Good girl. Come here.”

You rest your arm on the headboard, giving Aradia a clear invitation to nestle into your side, and she curls up to you willingly, boneless and satiated. With your free hand, you run your fingers through her hair, but it’s mostly absent-mindedly, as you’re too concerned with finishing this cigarette and processing things on your end to help her pull herself together. After her breathing evens out, her voice comes back, quiet and unsure. “Sir?”

“Droog,” you correct her. The moment has passed. The one word proves a clear delineation between this moment and what just occurred.

“Droog,” she says. You enjoy the way she says your name. “What could I do better?”

She asks that question after every one of your escapades. She always wants to improve herself, always wants to make you proud. You feel your face twist into a smile, carapace fangs showing, and you stub out this last cigarette—in the ashtray, rather than on her skin, as you feel a strange desire to do. “Next time,” you tell her, voice low and dangerous, “if you are very good, I will lay you down and drive into you so hard you forget your own name.”

“Oh,” she says softly, a shiver running down her spine. Her cheeks tint a delicate rust. “Next time?”

“I doubt you’ll be able to control yourself.” It’s an indirect affirmation, a sly insult, and yet it’s one of the things that endears you to her. Such an eager little thing.

As she drapes herself across your chest, her eyes droop and a soft smile adorns her face. “Next time,” she repeats. “I’ll be good.”

“You always are.” And as she falls asleep on you, you take the newspaper from the side table and turn to A6 to read about the latest heist the two of you were on.

**Author's Note:**

> Contains most of my headcanons for carapaces: asexual because cloned, vestigial genitalia that has not yet evolved away, unawareness of how much others want their dick, etc. And headcanons for Droog as well: possessive, controlling, dominating, and though he doesn't experience sexual desire he still very much enjoys the powerplay aspect.


End file.
